


all for us

by BabaTunji



Series: MCU Ficlets [5]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood, Cousin Incest, Established Relationship, Interrogation, King Killmonger, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sexual Roleplay, Top Erik Killmonger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 22:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19839442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabaTunji/pseuds/BabaTunji
Summary: Following their newest annexation, T'Challa and Erik have a little fun.





	all for us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Galaxiaa7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galaxiaa7/gifts).



> These verse is part of a larger story coming soon, for now here's a dark little interlude for the lovely, galaaxiaa7 (ilu)
> 
> A mood setter: "All For Us"  
> https://open.spotify.com/track/1VNRj42vX5uNMabyKbE8sI?si=VZl74qwfTguHvT3vjBsCyA 
> 
> The 'blade' mentioned is a "Stainless Steel Double Edge Blade" Not very big. https://www.razorbladeco.com/content/images/thumbs/0001364_60-0139-personna-stainless-steel-double-edge-blade_300.jpeg

-:- Erik -:- 

“She’s too young.” T’Challa says this while doing something in one hand on his kimoyo beads and balancing a drink in the other. Erik is watching their driver who is pretending not to listen. The ‘she’ in question is their eldest daughter, and 8 years old.

“Nothing’s gonna happen. It’ll be good for her to be there.” If it made T’Challa feel better, he would have extra security around, but he didn’t expect any actual trouble. They did a special presentation for every country they officially ‘annexed.’ Technically what was formerly France has been theirs for a while now, but the ceremony would make everything official. T’Challa doesn’t look up from his screen; Erik waits.

“I know you are doing something special for this one. I do not want her present.” T’Challa’s voice is deceptively nonchalant. Erik knows better. T’Challa had obviously thought about this. Known he’d ask.

“She’s a big girl. I don’t want this to be just history to her.” These annexations were important. It’s one thing to read about it years after the fact. Another to be there. To see the people, to walk the streets, watch the last resistance die.

“N’Jadaka,” T’Challa finally looks up. “I will participate in the opening annexation ceremony if you agree to leave our daughter at home. When she is older, she can come watch with me. I won’t stop you.”

He isn’t expecting that. T’Challa is very hands-off with this part of their empire business. He understands the necessity, but the most Erik usually got out of him was silent observation. It is very tempting.

“I want her with me for the next one. She’s ready for it. You know she is.” He would love to have his baby girl at his side, the ceremony wasn’t anything too crazy either. Public executions, followed by some procedural stuff, maybe even a symbolic act for the new citizens depending on the location. Then lots of partying for the newly confirmed citizens. 

T’Challa doesn’t disagree. Their first daughter took after Erik in everything but looks. 

“We have time. Send me the logistics for the evening celebration.” T’Challa shelves the conversation in two sentences and Erik goes along gracefully. He did have something special planned for this annexation ceremonies and T’Challa had just agreed to participate. The forecast for tomorrow is hot and cloudy, perfect weather for a good show.

-:- T’Challa -:- 

N'Jadaka is still wearing the mask. 

He makes quite the image, standing on an elevated pavilion, clothed in nothing but the mask and ceremony skirt hanging low on his waist. T'Challa can tell his husband hasn't come down all the way. There had been some action this ceremony, a suicide pact, a uniform show of resistance and more blood spilled than he would like. More than enough to get N'Jadaka going. He's glad he put his foot down on their daughter coming. He's less glad about agreeing to participate.

T'Challa doesn't remember the faces anymore. There are too many. Billions will live because of them and for that, he's willing to kill the necessary amount. New French Republic is now part of the Wakandan Republic. Their population newly confirmed citizens. 

Wakanda treated its citizens differently. The things that happened before the annexation and this ceremony would not happen again. T'Challa focuses on the faces of those that have come to greet them. Following the ceremony there would a week-long celebration. With supplies and resources being shipped in from neighboring annexed nations and Wakanda itself. Aid for struggling populations and a weeks' head start for the new administration set to govern. The policies implemented here were the same across annexed nations. Mostly focused on social programs, restructuring the existing workforce and reviving the nation from a 6-year long conflict.

The new administration would be dealing with the effects of pre-annexation for the foreseeable future, and as it stood New French Republic's economy and local markets were tanked. It is in part Wakanda's doing but also bad leadership. Some nations were smart enough to surrender before hitting a recession level situation. Some weren't. 

Usually N'Jadaka would take off the mask after the ceremony, make sure to speak to the new citizens, give some speeches at a party or three. This evening, he doesn't. After some deliberation T'Challa leaves the open-air venue where they're hosting the first night's celebrations. He doesn't have to look back to know N'Jadaka is following.

T'Challa is 47. He doesn't count the years lost in the snap. They began annexations a little under 10 years ago. Following post-snap and the chaos. It'd just been the best thing to do. To avoid the implosion of everyone around them. To mitigate further disaster and global turmoil. The snap for T'Challa was a few seconds, for the rest of Wakanda and the world left behind, 5 years. Coming back to a nation that recognized him but didn't particularly want him as their King had been hard. Wakanda found its own more democratic way. Different from its former traditions and the sentiment they settled on most, aligned a little too well with the man T'Challa placed in a suspension pod at the beginning of his kingship and then summarily forgotten. For the 2 years N'Jadaka lost, T'Challa lost 5. It evened out.

Somedays T'Challa feels like a relic from the past. His role as Black Panther a nod to what Wakanda used to be. If T'Challa is the past, with its history and its reticence. N'Jadaka is the future. His husband doesn't go by any monikers anymore, though most nations have their own name for him. He laughs at 'Emperor' and frowns at 'King.' They don't have Kings anymore. Protectors yes, tasked with a much larger domain than just Wakanda's borders. But no King, not in name anyway. 

The evening air is warm, stale even, with no breeze and so many out in the streets. T'Challa walks until the crowds thin and the buildings grow sparse. The wildlife in this area was decimated years ago, climate change did the rest. Still he appreciates the open space of… nothing. Just sparse grass, paved ground and tall buildings in the distance. He takes a deep breath, notes the low air quality. More fauna would need to be added these next few years. 

Then he starts to run. 

He's not quite sprinting but he's moving faster than a jog. He listens for any sound from behind him or in his periphery. Nothing. Tonight, would be long then. The further he runs the faster he moves. When he’s approaching his fastest speed, he finally hears something. Not loud enough to give his pursuers’ exact location but enough to give him a direction to watch for. 

He runs like that for several minutes. If he didn't have the herb his lungs would be burning. Too soon he’s past the large clearing and back among buildings and the occasional crowd. The area he’s in is less affluent now, some of the buildings appear abandoned. He doesn’t stop running but he can’t move as fast as he had before. Soon he would need to face his pursuer or hide. 

T’Challa chooses to hide. The area lends itself to dark nooks and crannies, T’Challa picks one at random and tries to be quiet. If he isn’t found, then tonight would go much differently–nicer even. 

This time he can hear when his pursuer gets close. They make no attempt to hide their coming. Belatedly he thinks, he should not have stopped running. That way at least there would be more distance between them. Now it's a dark sort of ‘hide-and-seek.’ He doesn’t want to be found. 

When he is about to be found, he takes off again at a run. This time the chase is much shorter however, and it is not long before he’s being tackled to the ground. He tries to roll with the motion, push his pursuer off but it is no use and he feels nails digging into his skin as a knee forces its way between his legs. He doesn’t stop struggling until there is a razor to his neck. N’Jadaka holds the thin small rectangle in his mouth, hands occupied with restraining his captive. The edge of the small blade licks T’Challa’s skin almost lovingly. If his husband pressed any harder, it would break skin. Neither of them are breathing hard, strengthened by the herb and equally matched. 

On another night T’Challa would fight more, they might both bleed. Tonight, he’s more interested in N’Jadaka’s game. So, he pretends to be someone else. 

“Why are you doing this? Let me go.” N’Jadaka—no, Moniker doesn’t respond, razor still at T’Challa—no Dameron’s neck.

“I don’t know who you are. You have the wrong person.” No response. Then, Moniker spits out the blade. It falls to the ground beside them and Dameron thinks, dangerously: If only they could reach it… 

“Don’t play games now, you took my cock just fine when you were playing informant for local rebels.” Dameron doesn’t answer immediately. Fuck, fuck! “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, you have to believe me.” 

Moniker responds with dark laughter. “Don’t worry I’ll jog your memory for you.” The knee between his own legs presses a bit more insistently. “See your dick definitely remembers me.“

Dameron’s face goes warm but they do not struggle. Moniker might have more razors on him, and it wouldn’t mean anything to the psychopath to cut his losses and slice up some rebel whore. 

“I didn’t have a choice. They forced me and my mother.” Dameron pleads knowing it wouldn’t matter. Moniker is the sick type to torture you in lieu of a clean death. 

“Which one? The one that runs the place in Paris or the one that smuggled you out of that trap in March?”

How the fuck did he know that? Dameron’s heart is beating like a jackhammer, waiting for Moniker to end the one-sided interrogation. Why is he asking questions he already knew the answers to? Did it mean their network is compromised? Who’s the mole? “Why don’t you just kill me?” Dameron would never betray their people. They would rather die. 

“Now, why would I do that?” Moniker sounds downright gleeful, before he flips Dameron on his front. There’s a hand between his legs, and they have no time to even grab for the razor on the ground before Moniker’s hand is forcing their pants down and fuck fuck fuck! They have nothing they’re willing to barter, nothing to trade but their own ass. This is gonna hurt so bad and then Moniker would kill him. 

“Let me suck you, please.” Any lubrication would be good. They’ve gotten fucked dry before and needed stitches afterwards. They would do nearly anything to avoid it. Somehow, they can still see a way out of this. If Moniker didn’t kill them in the next 10 minutes, he must have other plans for Dameron’s continued survival, at least to report the existence of a mole, is all they wanted. 

“I don’t want your mouth on me, who knows how many cocks have been there.” Moniker dismisses his plea and Dameron feels confused. Then why is he pulling Dameron’s clothes off if he wasn’t about to rape him? Okay maybe they were going to die. They can’t see the razor on the ground anymore. Would probably just get themselves cut if they tried to reach for it. 

“What do you want?” Timid and tired. Whatever is coming they wouldn’t like it. 

“Answer some questions for me. If you do, I’ll do something nice.” Dameron gulps. They weren’t a lot of questions Moniker would be asking that he considered worth being ‘nice’ for. 

“I don’t know anything important. You have to know that.” They’re so tired of pleading. 

“Yeah, I have other people for that. What I wanna know is something else.” Dameron blinks takes a breath. Something *clicks* in Moniker’s hand, a sleek looking cap head. He drizzles something on Dameron’s exposed skin. Slimy and thick. 

“This is a drug we use for clinical rehabilitation. Works like truth serum and mood enhancer. Not released to the free city states of course, but probably in circulation in some black market somewhere.” As Moniker talks, he rubs the gel on Dameron’s skin. Mainly on their legs, their thighs, the globes of their ass and around their hole. The man is wearing gloves. Dameron hadn’t noticed that before and their heartbeat increases, as if it weren’t already racing. 

“So, I’m gonna use some on you, and you’re gonna answer a few questions for me. If I like the answer, I’ll be nice to you.” The razor is back, now in Moniker's hand instead of his mouth. They don't know anything useful. They’re so scared.

Moniker leans over them and presses the razor lightly on their chest. The questions start. 

Mostly unexpected, inane, or both. Dameron can’t see why the hell Moniker would care. Each time they answer, they get a thin new horizontal slice on their chest. It hurts, the way paper cuts do. The nerves and flesh inflamed and irritated but only barely bleeding. Dameron is crying by the 3rd or 4th question. After a while it’s harder to remember what they can and can't stay. It just hurts, like demonic butterfly kisses to the chest. 

Around the sixth question Moniker’s other hand slides between their legs, pushing a finger past the taut rim of their ass and inside them. It feels strange, perhaps the drugs or whatever Moniker rubbed on them. There's the pain from the cuts, but now there is a new sensation coming from the feeling of being penetrated. It doesn’t feel good. It feels like too much. Another finger joins the first, another cut, another question. More tears, more sobs. 

Moniker watches it all. When the questions stop, Moniker replaces his fingers with his cock. Apparently not too good for a stupid rebel whore’s hole. It doesn’t hurt. It should. Whatever drug that gel was numbs the feeling to an extreme degree. They could be tearing right now and not be able to feel it. That's how numb they are. The overwhelmed feeling doesn’t go away and neither does Moniker. Taking his sweet time, rocking in leisurely, seeming to be enjoying himself. 

Dameron waits, for Moniker to go still. When he finally does, they can’t even feel what has to be a whole load of come start leaking out of them. It’s just numb. Cold and numb. Their breathing gets louder as they start to panic from the loss of feeling. When would it wear off!? 

Moniker tells them: “All for Us.” 

T’Challa closes his eyes and N’Jadaka cradles his head.

“It’ll wear off soon, I didn’t want to hurt you.” One sentence and his body relaxes. He still can’t feel parts of his lower body, but he trusts his husband implicitly. 

“Was it good?” T’Challa asks. They don’t play like this often. But T’Challa tried. N’Jadaka isn’t wearing the mask anymore, having discarded it when their chase ended. 

“Unbelievably good. I didn’t expect you to get in character, like that.” N’Jadaka sounds impressed and T’Challa preens. It hadn’t taken much to pull a persona together. 

“What type of gel did you use?” Obviously, some sort of anesthesia, a strong, fast acting one. 

“I’ll show you when we get home, you can use it on me. It works fast, but the herb should metabolize it soon.” As he speaks N’Jadaka lifts T’Challa up to his feet, helps him get dressed again. 

Walking is difficult but still possible. They’re not quite in public, but their location is semipublic so leaving as quickly as they arrived before anyone came investigating is best. The cuts on his chest haven't started to heal yet. They’d discovered together and alone the limits of the herb’s healing. Things like paper cuts and superficial wounds took some of the longest time to heal. ‘Long’ being more than an hour here, which is long enough that they hurt pretty bad. T’Challa’s tears hadn’t been fake. 

“You played your role better than I did.” T’Challa compliments while they walk. 

“It was hard. You looked and sounded so hurt and scared.” N’Jadaka doesn’t look him in the face, but T’Challa can hear the strain in his voice. 

“Because you were terrifying N’Jadaka. It was good.” They’re holding hands and he squeezes his husband’s hand, quietly reassuring.

“I just wish I could have felt something when you fucked me. However, the sensation of feeling nothing, just visual and audio input. That's interesting." They would have to try it again.

N’Jadaka concurs, “Isn’t it? I tried it on myself a few times, to make sure it worked the way I wanted it to. It’s really trippy.” 

“How bad am I?” T’Challa can’t feel anything but N’Jadaka fingers him after their role play ended, to check. 

“Not too bad. A little inflamed, your body was very relaxed. But you still felt so tight, when you try it on me, you’ll see what I mean.” N’Jadaka sounds excited, T’Challa is too. They had more experimenting to do. 


End file.
